Only the Good Die Young
by bookwormtsb
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is 16, he won't see 17. His life is a monotonous cycle of check ups, injections, visits from the family, pitying stares from strangers and operations. He doesn't expect his last month to be any different from the other two spent in the hospital but then John Watson, a 17 year old visiting the hospital on work experience stumbles into his life and everything changes.
1. Chapter 1

I stare out of the window. It's laced with thin strips of metal so that you can't break the window and escape. I look past the metal strips and out into the park just outside. It's full of people, a couple kissing passionately on a bench, a little boy crying over a spilt ice cream, a woman yelling into a phone, a man in a trench coat staring at the ground. I play a game, I imagine them at home, I imagine their bedrooms and their kitchens and their favourite foods and their biggest fears and the songs they have stuck in their heads.

I sit up slightly and tuck my feet under my thighs, pushing the scratchy bed sheet away from my abdomen so that I can get closer to the window. I slowly raise my hands to just in front of my face and make a triangle with my bony fingers so that my gaze is zeroed in on each of them in turn.

The couple: He's wearing a shirt and tie, school uniform. She's wearing a different uniform. They've been kissing for approximately 10 minutes, this is probably the only chance they'll get to see each other all day. They're wearing matching bracelets, thin threads plaited together in vibrant colours. They're in love.

I move my gaze onto the little boy: He's probably not old enough for school, he's with a child minder rather than his mother. He misses her and that's part of why he's throwing such a tantrum-

"Hello Sherlock," I roll my eyes and drop my hands to my lap, not bothering to turn around.

"Doctor." I say stiffly as he drops into the hard backed chair next to my bed.

"How are you feeling today?" he says quietly. I still don't face him.

"Does it really matter?"

He sighs and removes his glasses, I can hear the frames creak as he drops them to his lap and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Yes Sherlock, it matters." I nod almost imperceptibly.

"I feel fine," he sighs again. Nowadays Dr. Somerhault does little but sigh, it's probably because his youngest son has just broken his arm and his oldest son has just come out of the closet.

"Sherlock, we can't help you if you won't help us."

"I answered your question, doctor." I drawl and turn my attention back to the park, my eyes flickering disinterestedly over its occupants.

"It's your last bout of treatment next week," he murmurs quietly and I feel an uncharacteristic lump in my throat.

"I know."

"It's not too late, there's a chance, albeit a slim one, but a chance," he says even more quietly this time and I finally turn to look at him. He's in his early forties and has, for the most part, retained a full head of brown hair that flops across his glasses. He's got a serious face and a set of straight teeth and is always clean shaven. As doctors go, he's talented, fairly reassuring and far from patronising. I appreciate it.

"I've made my decision," I can feel my eyes beginning to sting as he fixes me with a fatherly expression, his eyes are sad and maybe for a minute I can convince myself that he'll miss me when I'm gone and I won't just be another patient of room 221. I try to convince myself that they won't just dispose of the sheets and clean the room, maybe they'll remember me.

"You're a smart kid Sherlock, it's always a tragedy when it happens like this," he sighs.

"Would it be less of a tragedy if it was someone with a lower IQ in this predicament?" I snap.

"It's always a tragedy Sherlock, it's the worst part of my job. Seeing kids like you come and go with this burden far too big for your years," he whispers and I can tell that he's thinking of his own children. I bitterly remember the time they came to the hospital, he has two sons and a daughter, all with matching tans and light brown hair, his happy, healthy family.

I can feel my vision beginning to blur and I stare at the linoleum, my eyes stinging.

From the chair, Dr. Somerhault exhales slowly before bringing his eyes up to meet mine.

"I suggest that you start thinking about the things you want to do before the time comes," he says so, so quietly.

"What if I don't know what I want to do?" I sound scared and I internally chastise myself.

"Spend some time thinking about it, I'll try and make it all achievable." he smiles gently and reaches into his pocket, "here's a pen and paper."

I take them numbly and turn the pad of paper over in my hands before placing it on the cabinet next to my bed, "thank you."

Even though my words are barely a whisper he understands and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before leaving quietly, his shoulders slumped and his eyes sad.

I drop back onto the pillows. I don't particularly feel like observing anyone else so I stare at the ceiling. Dr. Somerhault is the closest I get to company all day. Greg Lestrade, my next door neighbour and kind of friend drops by occasionally with a packet of cigarettes smuggled in the pocket of his leather jacket and he stays for a while, chatting idly and reading the paper to me. Mycroft comes, but always late at night, after the visiting hours and he just sits there, watching.

It's a lonely existence.

I sit up again and examine my arms, littered with needle marks and and plasters. I look almost skeletal with my bones sticking out under my almost translucent skin, my skin is dry and patchy. I look like I'm dying.

I sigh and watch as people scurry down the corridor, my ward is always bustling with crying parents and teenage patients with dead eyes. I rarely speak to them, everyone in the ward is too consumed with their own thoughts. Their thoughts of their friends, family, lovers and everything they've left behind.

I don't miss a lot.

I miss my scarf and my cigarettes. I miss my encyclopedias and my microscope. I miss the poster with the constellations mapped out on my ceiling and the massive bay window in my bedroom. I miss the sky at night and I miss my independence.

The lump in my throat is growing.

I know fine well that I can't take any of those things where I'm going and it's my decision to stop the treatment but it still scares me. It scares me that one day I'll be nothing but a boring gravestone in a cemetery and a scattering of memories in the minds of my family.

I'm dying, and it scares me.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day is the same as the rest. A nurse with a smile as fake as her nails delivers a plate of lukewarm mush which I shovel into the bin at the earliest opportunity and spend the rest of the day lying on top of the duvet with my head craned back so that I can just about see out of the window. I've been reliably informed by the tittering nurses that we're in the middle of a record breaking heatwave and judging by the gleeful calls from outside the window, the entirety of London is basking in the sunshine. It's too hot in the room so I neglect a t-shirt and lie stiffly on the bed in just jeans, I'm trying to picture what it'll be like when I actually die.

I can only hope that they don't let my brother choose the suit.

I've heard the the nurses gossip about how amazingly flippant I sound about the entire affair. What they don't understand is that as much as I'm terrified, it's going to happen and whether I cry and shout or scream until I'm red in the face, I can't stop that.

I fold my hands across my concave stomach and beat out a small rhythm with my long fingers on my ribcage. That's the thing about dying, it's so boring.

When I was a little boy I'd always pictured myself dying heroically at a crime scene when I had masterfully solved a puzzle that had confused the entirety of Scotland Yard. They'd have my name all across the papers, with a photo from my University days on the front page and there'd be testimonies and accounts from my family and admirers.

I didn't expect to die in a hospital bed in London, aged sixteen. No, that had never been part of the plan.

I reach up with one hand and grab onto the pad of paper that Dr. Somerhault had given me. I tug the pen lid off with my teeth and keep it there, biting down on the blue plastic in thought.

I quickly write my name on the top of the page before adding a title just below it: Before I Die.

I'm stumped. I have absolutely no idea what I want to do before I die. So, I think about the things I enjoy and the things I presumed I'd have time to do.

Visit a crime scene, behind the tape and examine the victim.

It must sound odd to others, but really, what else was I going to put there? Visit Disneyland? I don't think so somehow.

I drop the pad onto the bed next to me. Why is that such a common wish? What is it about Disneyland and similar places that seems to attract the attention of those in my predicament?

I lie still in thought for a while.

Dr. Somerhault said that he'd try and make my wishes achievable, would this be a little too far to ask?

There's a bustle of movement outside my room and I sit up slowly. Teenagers are moving through the halls, their eyes wide and interested, they're all dressed in casual clothes but they don't belong here. They're too healthy, too whole.

I gently climb off the bed and walk across to the door, pressing my forehead to the window as they pass before tugging the door open and stepping out. Dr. Somerhault is frantically shuffling papers while trying to hold a conversation with a girl in a denim skirt and band t-shirt.

"Doctor?" it's the first time I've spoken today and my voice is little more than a croak.

He looks up and shoots me a nervous look as if to say 'one minute', I lean against the door frame and wait for the girl to go. She turns a moment later and looks at me, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in my narrow chest and withering expression.

"What's going on Doctor?" I ask and he smiles slightly, relieved that I'm not in pain.

"It's the work experience kids, some of them will be coming into see you," I narrow my eyes.

"I'm not an exhibition."

"I know, they'll be following the doctors, seeing what it's like to work in a hospital, you don't have to speak to them but," his eyes flicker with a hint of sadness, "be nice."

I roll my eyes and turn on my heel, stomping into the room and flopping onto the bed.

"Be nice?" I repeat to myself and glare at the ceiling.

Outside my door a boy with sandy hair crashes into one of the nurses, sending paperwork everywhere. I hiss a sigh and watch as he turns a bright red and stoops to help her while apologising profusely. He's wearing plaid and looks slightly dopey, great, I have to spend two weeks surrounded my incompetent idiots my own age, it'll be like school.

I know deep down that it won't be like school, at school I was tormented for being different, but here, here I'm exactly same as the other kids on my ward. I've become my illness, I'm no longer Sherlock Holmes. I'm the occupant of room 221 and that's how the teenagers here for work experience will view me, another person to pity.

I watch as the boy hurries off down the corridor, his eyes fixed straight ahead this time, rather than down at his shoes.

I turn my attention to the TV which one of the nurses must have turned on. It's that Godawful Jeremy Kyle Show. I tuck my legs under me and watch the screen intently. I tug a pillow onto my lap and sit forward, my keen eyes flicking across the screen.

"No!" I howl, "of course he's not the boy's father!" I gesture at the screen, "look at the turn ups on his jeans!"

As I said, dying is boring.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm pretending to be asleep when the door of my room creaks open the next morning. The day is just as hot and my head is full of a white hot pain. My mouth is dry and my body is hyper-sensitive. I reach out blindly for the bedside cabinet where they've left my pills, I dry swallow them without sitting up and roll onto my front.

"Hullo," I open one eye.

The boy with the plaid is standing at the foot of my bed. Today he's wearing a pair of worn jeans and a Joy Division t-shirt. His hair is blonde, short and neatly combed into a fringe and there's a blush across his cheeks.

I look around the room quickly. Dr. Somerhault is kneeling beside me scribbling furiously on a chart.

"Hello," I reply slowly and he shoots an awkward smile back.

Dr. Somerhault looks up, "John, this is Sherlock, he's your age and Sherlock, this is John, he's going to be assisting me for the next two weeks."

I glare at John who shifts uncomfortably and hooks his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. I shoot Dr. Somerhault a dangerous look which he determinedly ignores.

"I need to go, will the two of you be okay for five minutes?"

We nod simultaneously as Dr. Somerhault leaves. I turn my attention to the window and try to ignore John in my peripheral.

John looks around and rocks on the balls of his feet, it's making my headache worse.

"You can sit down!" I snap and he readily obeys, dropping down into the chair by my bed.

"Soooooooo," he groans and looks across at me. His eyes don't widen in shock at the sight of my chapped lips, thin face and my black haired buzz cut. He isn't disgusted.

"Yes, so," I reply sharply, I can feel the drugs beginning to work.

"What's it like here?"

"A perpetual hell that smells of cleaning fluid," I reply and he nods, a slight grin playing at his mouth.

"It sounds like my school." I look up in shock for a moment before laughing.

He joins in a moment later.

"The plus side of dying is that I don't have to attend school," I say quietly and he nods thoughtfully. I know I'm being stupid, I'm trying to shock him.

"Where did you go?"

"St. Anthony's." he smiles again, apparently he's one of those smiley people.

"Oh, I go there."

"I've never seen you before," I say suspiciously.

"I moved here last year," he smiles and my drug addled mind finally notices the slight Scottish lilt to his voice.

"Oh, I left last year." I murmur, "you're right, it is a hell that smells of cleaning fluid."

John laughs and leans forward with his hands on his knees, "I guess you know Anderson then?"

"How could you miss someone that spectacularly stupid?" I ask and an evil grin lights up John's features.

"He got kicked out for bullying."

I mouth falls open slightly, "But Anderson's on the rugby team, they never kick the rugby players out!"

"Unless the entire rugby team complains about his homophobic bullying," John smirks and I frown confusedly.

"How do you know that?"

"I'm the captain." John deadpans. I find myself laughing and soon he's joining in.

John stops, "wait, you're Sherlock Holmes aren't you? There's a shrine type thing at school for you."

My lips turn down slightly, "...yes."

"Oh, wow, you look different from your photos," John smiles.

"Yes." I fiddle with the edge of the sheet.

We're silent for a long time. I stare at the white rounded toes of his converse and he pretends to be interested in my charts. After a moment I notice that he's now looking at my list.

"You've made a bucket list?" he asks. I look up again and notice that he's fiddling with the pen.

"A bucket list?" I look up suspiciously, he's fixed me with a look, not one of pity but instead understanding.

"Yeah, it's a list of everything you want to do before you die, and then you go around checking it off," he smiles and drums the end of the pen against the pad.

I sit up properly and fold my thin legs into a sitting position, my prominent ankle bones digging into my thighs.

"My doctor suggested it." I say slowly.

He grins and looks up at me again, "you seem to be struggling."

I bristle and move forward to snatch the paper off him. He moves back and prods me in the shoulder with the pen, "I'll help you."

"I don't need help." I shoot back angrily.

He waggles his eyebrows. God, is the boy determined to be as immature as possible? I allow my gaze to roam across him, deducing as quickly as possible. He's physically fit, captain of the rugby team, obsessively clean, bordering on OCD, his t-shirt and jeans are well worn, he doesn't have a lot of money, good posture, military upbringing.

"Are you allowed to leave the hospital?" he sucks on the end of the pen.

"Yes, now stop this immaturity," I shove my hand out, "give it back."

He shakes his head as I pout.

"Do you enjoy roller coasters?" John asks without looking up.

"I'm not going to Disneyland." I sigh and he laughs.

"Sorry, is that a bit too cliché?"

If looks could kill, I might actually outlive John.

"What about camping? Going to the beach?"

"Why, are you planning on writing and directing a film about a teenage cancer patient?" I ask suddenly and he looks up, confused.

"No, what on Earth-"

"You seem to be fulfilling the basic plot clichés for a movie within that genre." I murmur and to my surprise, he laughs. He doesn't tell me to 'piss off' or call me 'freak'.

I smile back. Maybe he isn't an incompetent idiot after all.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm just about to pull my duvet over my head and fall asleep under the sheets when John hurries in. He's nearly half an hour late and his hair is standing on end, he's definitely overslept.

I look him up and down amusedly, "late night studying?"

He frowns, "yeah actually, how did you know that?"

"The print from a page of the Oxford Handbook of Clinical Medicine has transferred onto your left cheek," I snigger and he rubs his cheek in disbelief while laughing.

"Yeah, I fell asleep at my desk."

His eyes are bruised with sleep deprivation and his shirt is buttoned up wrong, he doesn't see me looking.

John throws himself down into the chair by my bed and groans, "Christ, is there a coffee machine around here?"

"It's Sherlock Holmes, not Sherlock Christ." I quip and he takes a moment before smirking.

"Alright smart arse," he smiles, "could you show me where it is?"

I nod and he stands up again, moves towards the door and beckons with a slight tilt of his head. I climb out of bed, slip on a pair of trainers and follow him out of the door.

John slows his pace to accommodate for me as we walk along the corridor in silence.

"How long have you been here?" he plunges his hands into his pockets, pulls out a handful of change and counts it while we walk.

"I've been here full time for two months and three days."

"That must really suck, do you have any friends on the ward?" he seems genuinely interested, he's not just saying it out of politeness. I snort at his question.

"No."

John doesn't reply and slowly puts the change into the machine, "do you want anything?"

"Coffee please," we stand in silence as the machine drops two polystyrene cups onto a grate and then proceeds to fill them both with coffee.

It's hot and it burns my tongue but I haven't tasted anything that has felt even close to real in two months and three days. I smile at John's who's adding two sugars and one of those little milk cartons to his coffee, "...thanks."

"No problem, you look like you need it," he grins and takes a sip after blowing on his coffee. While he's looking down at his drink I take the opportunity to study the only person who's ever really been nice to me.

John looks so real, his white shirt is shockingly lighter than his tanned skin and he has a tiny spot at the edge of his mouth, his hair is untidy today. He's the perfect contradiction of me, sometimes I feel so transparent, as though I could just fade. John, however, is opaque, he's defined edges and his body is warm and he's whole. His body is packed with muscle and soft edges, his bones don't stick out of his body hideously. I watch as he drinks his coffee and sighs contentedly after each sip.

"I'm sorry that you haven't made any friends here," he says quietly.

"I'm not," he tilts his head in thought.

"I have an idea for your bucket list," he grins.

"Please don't let it be some horrible cliché, I beg of you." I complain as he smirks and pulls a scrap of paper and pen out of his back pocket. He puts his cup down and uses the top of the coffee machine to scribble something. He grins as he holds the paper up to me.

Make a friend (preferably John Watson)

I stare at the paper for a moment.

"You want to be my friend?" he nods.

"One thing ticked off," I smile.

John smiles back and presses the piece of paper into my hand, "I need to go see Dr. Somerhault, I'm meant to be sorting files."

He finishes his coffee and tosses the cup in the bin, "see you later Sherlock."

I nod and wave half-heartedly.

After he's rounded the corner I settle against the table and run a hand through my soft fuzz of hair. The piece of paper is burning into my hand so I slip it into the waist band of my pyjamas and finish my coffee with my eyes fixed on a tiny crack in the plaster of the opposite wall.

John Watson.

I swallow the last of my coffee and drop the cup in the bin.

I suddenly remember that it's a Thursday and Lestrade always comes on a Thursday. I hobble back to my room.

He's already there, he's got a hint of stubble and he's flicking through a magazine, "Sherlock!"

I'm not entirely sure why Lestrade still comes to see me, but at least he doesn't patronise me while he's here. I drop onto the bed and he looks me up and down.

I say, "did you bring me cigarettes?"

He rolls his eyes, "those things'll kill you Sherlock."

"Oh yes, keeping me from my long and healthy life. I'll be dead in a month Lestrade." I laugh.

He suddenly looks sad and I remember that sometimes it's actually harder for the people who know me. When the time comes I'll be gone, I won't have to see Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, my mother and Mycroft's expressions. I won't have to bury anyone. I'll be gone.

"I'm making a list of things to do before I die." I say and he looks up.

"Oh right, do you need any help?" his expression is nervous, for a guy who visits a dying teenager every week, he doesn't like discussing death.

I shake my head and stare at my feet, "I'm going to Police Academy," he says.

"That's excellent, still intent on becoming a DI?" he nods.

After another couple of minutes he leaves and I crawl under the covers. It's not until a bit later that I start crying. I don't want to be scared.

But I am.

A selfish part of me doesn't want Lestrade to grow up and get a job. I don't want Mycroft to get promoted again. I don't want John to finish work experience. I don't want everyone I know to progress in life. I don't want to be left as a sixteen year old in a dusty old photograph or just a memory. I really, really want to live.

Dying at sixteen is, above all, unfair.


	5. Chapter 5

I seem to be the only person that's happy about the end of the heatwave. Rain is lashing against the window and everyone is in a terrible mood, even John. He's sitting in the chair by my bed, that he seems to have adopted as his own, sorting files.

"My rugby match is going to be rained off," he moans. He's been blurting out complaints for the past hour.

"That can't be a bad thing," I reply, he looks up in shock, I've been ignoring him for nearly three quarters of an hour.

"I like rugby," he narrows his eyes.

"I like rain."

He nods and doesn't reply for a while. I turn back to the window, I can't see anything for the rain.

"Have you ever even played rugby?" I swivel my shoulders so that I'm facing him again.

"No.."

"I'm sensing number three on the list."

"I'm sensing no," he pouts and shoots me a big eyed expression.

"Scared you'll lose?" he taunts and I snort derisively.

"I'd be quite concerned if the captain of the rugby team couldn't win against a terminally ill teenager who's terrible at sports," I drawl and he smirks appreciatively.

"Screw it, it's going on the list Sherlock," he grabs the pen off of the nightstand before I've even registered his words.

Play a game of one on one rugby.

"Cross it out." I order.

"You can't cross stuff off a bucket list," he folds his arms across his chest and cocks an eyebrow at me.

"There's not a rulebook for bucket lists," I argue and he smirks.

"I don't care, it's going on the list and as soon as the rain stops we're going to go play."

His tone is final but I can't resist arguing back.

"What if I get sick?" it's a low blow.

"You're already sick, besides, going outside will be good for you, fresh air strengthens the lungs."

"Myth.." I drawl and he looks down at his files.

"Shut up Sherlock."

Some time later I find myself standing in the park wearing a thick hooded sweatshirt and glaring at a giddy looking John.

"Ready?" he beams.

"No.." I groan.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"No.." he smirks.

"Hold up, the mighty Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something?"

I sigh and tap my foot against the ground impatiently.

"Shut up John."

He giggles and licks his lips.

"This needs to be documented, seriously, this is ground breaking stuff."

John pulls the list out of his back pocket and rests the paper on his thigh as he quickly scribbles something that I can't quite make out from my position.

"Okay," he looks up and shoots me a wide grin, "so basically, I'm going to try and touch the ball between the two hedges behind you, you've got to intercept me and try and touch the ball between the two hedges behind me. Got it?"

"Yes," I sigh and roll my eyes as he cracks his knuckles and puts one foot behind him.

Then suddenly John is moving and he's nearly reached me. I quickly throw one arm out in an attempt to catch his waist but he's already grinning victoriously from between the hedges.

I huff angrily and turn to stomp back to the hospital when the ball rolls in front of my feet, "c'mon Sherlock, don't be like that," John complains from behind me.

I stoop to pick up the ball and turn it over and over in my hands multiple times, unsure of exactly what to do, not that I'd ever admit that to John. I start running.

Minutes later, I'm sprawled on top of John who's laughing uncontrollably. He's wrapped his arms around my waist to help cushion the fall and the ball is wedged between our chests.

"Very elegant," he teases, helping me to my feet.

"Shut up," I groan as I stand up, "can we go back now?" I stick my bottom lip out and he rolls his eyes.

"C'mon you pansy."

When we're back in the room, John immediately resumes his position in the chair while I change into my pyjamas.

I walk out of the bathroom and to my surprise John is scribbling away on the list, "what on Earth are you doing?"

He doesn't answer and continues, when I get close enough I realise that he's doodling. It's a tiny picture of me, my hair is in disarray and I'm holding a rugby ball. There's a neat line through number 3 on the list. I sit down opposite.

I watch him in my peripheral as he works, his tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth and his eyes are narrowed on the tip of the black ballpoint. John's hands ghost across the page, slowly adding detail and shadows. I haven't known him for very long. He never speaks about himself or about the future. I think he's scared of hurting me.

We sigh simultaneously and he looks up, "all done."

One of his hands moves down to his knee while the other extends the piece of A4 to me.

I smile in spite of myself, he's quite talented, even if it is vaguely cartoonish and childlike.

"I thought this was meant to a list of things to do before I die, not a collection of your doodles and pathetic whims," I grumble and he looks vaguely hurt for a moment before he starts to laugh.

"You're such a dick, you know that?" I smirk.

There's something very different about John Watson, he doesn't tiptoe around my emotions. He doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass. He treats me like he would anyone else. He jokes and laughs and teases. His freckled face is open and fresh and there's a stupid twinkle in his blue eyes.

"Yeah, I know."

Maybe dying won't be quite so lonely.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't see John for the next two days. I try reading a book about cadavers. It's obliviously aimed for the cluttered and placid minds of medical students, dull.

I end up sitting at the end of my bed, at an odd angle so that I have a view of the entire corridor and so I'll be the first to hear the squeak of his converse on the linoleum or the beat of his short measured strides and see him round the corner.

He doesn't.

Well, at least not for two days, and when he does, he's subdued. His arms are full of documents and lever arch files and I can tell that he isn't really listening as I peer at his handwriting and begin to tell him about what you can deduce from someone's handwriting.

His phone keeps vibrating with texts and he replies at a furious speed.

"John?" his thumbs are flying over the keyboard.

"Mm?" he doesn't look up.

"Why don't you ever talk about yourself?"

There's a silence that seems to last for eternity before John clears his throat and looks up.

"What do you mean?"

I narrow my eyes at him as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, "you know exactly what I mean."

He laughs for a moment, "you're the clever one, haven't you done that deducing thing on me already?"

I flicker my eyes across his face, "from what I've observed, that's not how a friendship works."

He runs his tongue over his teeth and makes an odd sucking noise with the air through his front teeth.

"Sorry," John looks down at his lap, his phone has been discarded on the armrest.

We stare at each other for a long while, unsure of what to say.

"Well, what do you want to know?"

I take the opportunity to roll my eyes and snort derisively.

"How am I supposed to know what I want to know about you, if I don't know anything about you?"

"It is far too early in the morning for you to pull that sort of stuff on me," he yawns and cards his fingers through his uncharacteristically messy hair.

"It's nearly twelve pm."

He laughs, "fine, whatever Sherlock."

"What's your favourite song?"

He looks up and his brows knit together for a moment before answering, "Love Will Tear Us Apart."

"Favourite book?"

"The Catcher in the Rye."

"Favourite school subject?"

"Biology."

"Favourite poem?"

"The Road Not Travelled, by Robert Frost."

"You genuinely like poetry?"

"Girls love it."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I broke up with my girlfriend, Sarah, last night."

"Why?" he shifts for a moment before meeting my gaze.

"She was overly possessive and was constantly accusing me of things."

"Such as?"

"Cheating on her."

"And were you?"

"God, no."

"How many people in your family?"

"Me, my mum, dad and sister."

"Is your sister older or younger?"

"Older."

"Do you get along?"

"Occasionally."

"Why occasionally?"

"Who gets along with their sibling all the time?"

"Is she the reason that you don't drink?"

"What?"

"You have one of those little 'straight edge' badges pinned to your backpack."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"What's that got to do with my sister?"

"Everything."

"Okay."

"What do you want to do when you leave school?"

"Become an army doctor."

"Why?"

"I want to be a doctor, but I want a challenge."

"I can see why you don't want to work in some hellish hospital, I'd go to a war zone to avoid this place."

We both start laughing and before long John starts telling me about some of the idiotic people in his class and the frankly dangerous and stupid exploits of the rugby team. He tells me about the time someone used hair removal on his right eyebrow the day before an interview. He speaks passionately about the fact that he still has a vinyl record player and hates having to use headphones when he goes out because they make his ears ache. John uses his hands a lot when he speaks, especially about all the concerts he's been to and the places he's visited. He lists his favourite places in the world and counts them off on his fingers. John laughs as he recalls the time he nearly got mugged on the underground but his attacker tripped over his own shoe laces. I smile.

John moves onto the stupid stories about how the over protective Sarah screamed at him when his sister, Harry texted him and she immediately presumed that he was having an affair. He explains how he got the scar across the bridge of his nose when he was playing frisbee and forgot to catch.

And it's lovely. The way he grins and laughs and shares genuinely funny anecdotes. A larger part of me than I'm willing to admit doesn't want his phone to vibrate with a text from his mother, saying that she's parked by the steps. A part of me doesn't want Dr. Somerhault to come round and check that all the work experience kids have gone home. I don't want John to say goodbye.

Maybe he could hide in the narrow space between my bed and the floor and crawl out when the doctors have gone home and the night nurses are downing coffee at the stations. And we could stay up all night, laughing and talking and not noticing the fact that the sun is rising.

My fingers twitch out slightly as I move to tug down the blinds. Maybe if John can't see the slightly misty moon that's already beginning to appear in the sky, then he won't leave and go home to his family and friends and anecdotes.

His phone buzzes all the same.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm not entirely sure if I'm crossing a boundary.

But I wake up and my entire body aches as though it's on fire.

I don't particularly want to speak to one of the night nurses, they're useless. They just pump you with enough drugs to last you until morning or, if you're really bad, they phone up your doctor. I don't want to wake Dr. Somerhault up, he's looking more and more haggard by the day.

So I reach out blindly for my phone and I somehow locate his number that he gave me the day before.

I phone John.

It rings three times before he picks up. His voice is a low rumble and he sounds exceedingly bleary.

"Sherlock?" John answers quietly and I can hear the rustle of sheets and him yawning into the receiver.

"John." I state and there's a moment of silence, only the sound of our breath and the quiet beeping of my monitor.

"Are you okay? Is something wrong? Are you hurt?" panic is beginning to seep into his voice and he sounds slightly more alert.

"It really hurts John." I try so very hard not to cry but the sheets are sweaty and my head is pounding.

"Okay.." he breathes out and the sheets rustle again, "drink some cold water, take your pills and slow, deep breaths. You're going to be okay."

"This is what it's going to feel like, isn't it?" I yelp and he exhales again, he sounds really sad.

"But this isn't it. It's not time Sherlock, calm down. Deep breaths." I nod even though John can't see me.

"Do you want me to come to the hospital?"

I answer immediately, "no."

"I don't mind."

"Yes you do."

"Alright."

"Alright."

I swallow the pills and drink the water and take deep breaths for a long while with John on the other line, not speaking.

"John?"

"Mhm?"

"Thank you."

"No, really it's alright. I wasn't properly asleep anyway," he's lying. Of course he's lying, I probably disrupted his REM sleep cycle so badly that he won't sleep restfully for the remainder of the night. But still, he's lying to make me less scared and unhappy.

I really, truly appreciate it.

"I didn't mean for answering the phone."

"Oh?" he already knows what I mean, of course John knows. He doesn't credit himself with how truly clever he is, not that I'd ever dream of telling him that.

"I meant, for being my friend. You're my first friend."

"Thanks S'lock," I feel an odd heat in my chest when he calls me that and I settle back against the pillows.

"Night John."

"Night."

I keep the phone pressed against my ear for several minutes after the conversation's been disconnected.

I tug off my t-shirt and discard it on the floor before rolling over to stare blankly at the ceiling until I fall asleep.

Deep inside my mind palace I categorise my thoughts and feelings. Shifting most of them over to the recently constructed area of my indexed thoughts- John's area. There I store the information about John that is seemingly useless, but I still don't want to discard. Such as the exact blue of his eyes, the dimple on the right side of his mouth, the way his handwriting slants to the right, the way he tugs at his bottom lip with his hand when he's lost in thought or confused, the small scar through his left eyebrow.

I question whether these are the sort of things that friends know about the other. I decide that I don't care after pondering the question for a while.

When I finally fall asleep, it doesn't hurt quite so much anymore. My temperature's dropped significantly and I don't have that claustrophobic ache in my chest.

And I dream about an alternative reality in which both John and I are healthy and whole and most importantly, happy and maybe there, I won't have to say goodbye.


	8. Chapter 8

John arrives extra early the next day, I can tell that he hasn't slept. His eyes are rimmed with red and have bruises underneath. He smiles at me all the same.

This time however, his smile isn't quite right. He doesn't show off his teeth and his eyes don't crinkle and light up. He doesn't do the silent laugh where he exhales and grins and runs his tongue across his front teeth.

He looks..sad.

For the first time, John doesn't look carefree, happy and optimistic.

He looks beaten.

Panic starts to rise in my chest, my throat constricts and my cheeks stain with colour. I'm terrified that I've broken John. John Watson, the smiley, kind and funny football player who only came here for work experience. I've burdened him with my woes and problems. No matter how strong you seem, making friends with someone who won't see the next couple of months is bound to hurt you.

And I've hurt John.

I want to run away and never ever come back because as much as I pretend to not really give a shit about dying I'm still terrified. The flippancy was always just an act, I'd been under the firm belief that if I didn't care, it wouldn't hurt.

But I'm going to end up hurting John, it's inevitable.

That's the thing about dying, it's inevitable. And when you're sixteen, it's a tragic inevitability.

"Sherlock?"

I look up and I'm met with a wealth of sadness in his eyes. He presses his lips into a slim pink line and fiddles with the hem of his hooded sweatshirt.

"Yes John?"

I mentally berate myself. I want to say so much more, I want to explain how very sorry I am. I want to explain how scared I am and I'm sorry that he ever saw the bucket list and that he got allocated to help me. I want to tell him that a part of me wishes that some other boisterous teenager had stepped through the door after Dr. Somerhault and had spent the days sorting files and texting and not really caring too much about the kid in the bed.

"Today's my last day."

Stupid. God, I'm so stupid.

I don't reply.

I don't need to. John Watson will pack up any pens and paper he's left in the room or Dr. Somerhault's office. He'll give me a hug and promise to visit. He'll shake Dr. Somerhault's hand and thank him for the opportunity before he puts his hood up and puts his headphones on and walks down to where his mum is parked. He might be a little subdued over dinner, but by the time Monday rolls around and he's swamped with coursework and the usual pre-start of term rush to Ryman's he'll have pushed me to the back of his mind. And over time, slowly he'll forget the way I take my coffee and the colour of my eyes. It might take a while, but he'll forget. Then one day, in about a month or so, he'll be reading the paper while he's eating breakfast, and his eyes will subconsciously scan the obituaries. He'll see my name. And he'll remember. He'll remember me, maybe not the way I take my coffee or the colour of my eyes. He'll be sad, sure. But he'll forget.

It's inevitable.

Suddenly I'm angry. I storm past him, making sure to snatch my cigarettes and lighter from under the mattress first. He stumbles back slightly, he's shocked.

I make it all the way down the corridor and into the stairwell before I start crying.

The cigarette is between my lips, the tip is slightly damp from my tears and I'm struggling to work the lighter. John steps through the doorway and drops down onto the stair next to me. He doesn't lecture me on how terrible smoking is. Instead, he removes the soggy cigarette and plucks one from the pack resting on my thigh. He presses it between my lips and lights it. It takes him a while, he obviously isn't used to working a lighter, but his hands are shaking far less than mine.

I blow out a ring of smoke and John smiles weakly.

"Have a good life John. I mean it, you'll be a good doctor one day." I tip my head back and exhale. The smoke curls around us in the harshly lit stairwell.

"What are you on about?"

"I hate repeating myself."

"I don't understand. Why are you so angry?"

I laugh bitterly.

"All my life, I've been perfectly content to be my myself. I've always been a victim of bullying because people see my intelligence as a threat. I've never really cared. But then you came along, and you were so much more than I anticipated. I know I've only known you for a fortnight but, when you've got a limited number of fortnights left, it's enough."

John licks his lips and stretches his legs out on the stairs.

"You're such an idiot." he starts laughing and I inhale sharply and stare at him.

"I'm a what?"

"I hate repeating myself."

"Shut up John. Wit doesn't suit you."

"Just because my work experience is ending, doesn't mean that I can't come by and see you."

I roll my eyes. My earlier premonition about his promises to visit slowly coming to life.

"I mean it." John pulls out the crumpled and battered list that we started two weeks ago.

He smoothes the creases and rests it on our knees.

John points to number two on the list.

"Friends aren't just for a fortnight, okay?"

I nod and gulp slightly.

"I'm going away next week, my parents rent a beach house in Cornwall every year. I was wondering, well, I was wondering if you'd like to come with us?"

I look up and take another long drag.

"Yeah, I'd like that a lot."

Maybe John Watson won't forget the way I take my coffee or the colour of my eyes after all.


	9. Chapter 9

To the people that don't have to live with Mycroft Holmes, they might describe his as: enigmatic, ruthless, powerful, intelligent etc.

To those who do have to live with him (aka me) they might describe him as: a twat.

I glare at him from my position in bed. He's got his slim fingers tightly clasped around a navy umbrella and he's inspecting my charts with the look of someone who has a bad smell under their nose. I roll my eyes as he makes a quiet tutting sound and shuffles the papers.

His thick auburn hair has been painstakingly combed to the side and his three piece suit is a little too big around the shoulders.

"I have been informed from a reliable source that you've made a friend," he's got that sickly sweet smile spread across his stupidly smug features and his head is tilted in a way that just screams superiority complex.

I grimace and nod my head, "..and with a footballer, or all people. Really Sherlock? What could a silly little footballer offer you?"

I scowl at him and cross my arms against my stomach. I can feel my heart beating in my chest.

"Oh," Mycroft drawls as his features twist into a smirk, "I understand now, you and your silly little footballer boyfriend, is this something off your list? Frolic around with some meathead?"

I growl and jump to my feet, "get out Mycroft."

He turns his umbrella over and over in his hands and refuses to stand. I loom over him, but I'm far too skinny to make any sort of impression. Mycroft laughs and slowly stands up, "I have an engagement that I must see to." I run my tongue across my teeth and place my hands on my hips, my nails digging into my prominent hip bones.

"Good," he raises an eyebrow and steps across to the door. The door is half open when Mycroft turns to face me again, his expression has changed. His lips are turned down in a half-smile.

"It was good to see you, little brother." I nod curtly and gulp down the lump that's rising in my throat.

His eyes are beginning to look a little red around the edges as he reaches out to shake my hand. I take it tentatively. His hands are soft with hand cream and weekly manicures and his grip is a little too firm.

I smile slowly, "it was good to see you too, Mycroft."

And then he's gone.

I stumble back to the bed and I bring my knees up my chest so that I can bury my face in the scratchy denim of my jeans. I start crying, ugly sobs that rise up out of my chest and make me slam my forehead against my narrow thighs in anger. I pull myself into a tighter ball with each sob until I am rocking back and forth.

Even though I despise Mycroft, I still feel sorry for him.

It's pointless, surely one of the only benefits of dying when you're sixteen is that you're allowed to be selfish? But I can only think about how much harder it is for everyone else. For Greg, who's just finished his A-levels and is about to go to Police Academy. For my parents, who should really be busy raising two happy healthy sons. For Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper who should really be with her own family and not with mine. For Dr. Somerhault, who has to witness a boy of his son's age slowly deteriorating.

But most importantly, for John, who picked up a scrap of paper and somehow became the most important person in my life.

I wrap my thin arms even more tightly around me.

I can see my parents, my father, tall and stoic in his Saville Row suit, his hands on my mother's shoulders as she cries quietly. Mycroft will be standing at the end of my bed. His knuckles white and clasped around that stupid umbrella of his. Greg'll be lurking in the corner, crying in a ridiculously undignified manner. Mrs. Hudson will have her arm wrapped around him and he'll hold her.

And John, my friend, he'll be right beside me.

Maybe it won't be so bad.

I'm lying.

I don't think I've ever been so scared.

If death is the next big adventure, I'd really rather just stay at home.


	10. Chapter 10

John skips into my room at 7am, with a dusty backpack hooked over his shoulders and his dark t-shirt crinkled and crushed, he obviously just woken up as his hair is ridiculously mussed and has flopped over his forehead, he clutches two Styrofoam cups of piping coffee and passes one to me.

"Are you ready to rumble?"

I roll my eyes as he pushes a pair of black Raybans up off his eyes and onto the top of his head, moving his hair into a ridiculous quiff.

I feel like shit. I've been taking these meds since treatment finished and they've been causing the night terrors and the shakiness and the sweating.

"I said are you ready to rumble?" John growls ecstatically.

"No," his eyes flicker with an uncertain emotion and he pauses for a moment before he places his cup down on my cabinet, drops his backpack and hops onto the bed, I want to complain about the fact that his muddy Timberlands are getting my duvet dirty and that the single bed isn't really big enough for us both. There are three layers between us- my t-shirt, his t-shirt and the duvet- I'm tucked underneath and he's sprawled on top- but I can still feel his warmth radiating through the material and against my chest.

Instead of complaining, I settle for: "what are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to get out of bed and participate," I furrow my eyebrows together.

"Participate?"

"Yes," there's a lull of companionable silence.

"Well, you see, I've been kind enough to invite you on holiday with me and you can't even be bothered to get out of bed."

I cross my arms across my chest and huff, "you're being childish, I'm unwell."

"I noticed."

He drums his fingers against his thighs. I refuse to budge.

John huffs and flicks me in the ribs, " you're being impossible."

I roll my eyes, "I think you'll find I'm being improbable, not impossible."

"Huh."

More silence.

I make a noise of annoyance and clamber out of bed, John looks infuriatingly smug. I ignore him and uncap the bottles of pills on my cabinet, I dry swallow three from each bottle. His eyes skim over the labels and my throat constricts as his eyes linger over the Zoloft and Prozac. He's training to be a doctor, of course he'll know that they're proscribed depression and not cancer.

Thankfully, he doesn't say anything and instead hums along to some song that I vaguely recognise while I pull on a once fitted and now loose navy sweater and jeans. I duck down and tug out the haphazardly packed rucksack.

I turn to look at him and click my tongue impatiently, "I'm waiting for you to get out of bed and participate."

John smirks and waggles his eyebrows in such a way that his sunglasses shift on his head and flop back down onto his nose. He swings his legs off the bed, passes the forgotten cups of coffee to me and gathers up my bag, "ready?"

I nod.

We take the stairs, lifts make me feel trapped, he doesn't even mention it despite the fact that he's carrying all the luggage.

When we reach the lobby, I sign out and they clip a narrow orange plastic bracelet around my wrist with my room number and name printed in clumsy black letters.

I tug my sleeve down over it before John can see. He's just outside, loading our backpacks into the boot of a battered red Citroen. I watch him through the slightly warped glass of the lobby doors, his t-shirt has been snagged by one of the bags and is caught up around his belly button, I can just about make out the waistband of a pair of black boxers above his jeans and there's a glimmer of a tan-line. I make sure the bracelet is hidden and step out into the street.

I'd forgotten quite how hot summer could be, the humid air envelops me and the light breeze that dances across the back of me neck feels like an oasis in a desert.

I squint through the bright and dusty air. In the park opposite the hospital the two teenagers that I saw all those weeks ago are playing frisbee, his hair is slightly longer and she's wearing a tie-dye t-shirt that accentuates her breasts and flat stomach. John checks her out from the corner of his sunglasses and she grins back. I wonder if this is what it's like to be a normal teenager, enjoying the end of their summer holidays.

"Ready?"

John's car is cramped and old fashioned, with an ancient looking stereo and a beach ball design air freshener dangling from the mirror. The seats are an odd grey material with tiny little triangles in the primary colours printed periodically. His kit bag is sprawled across the back seat and a swim team hoodie with 'Watson' across the back is draped over the head rest. He starts up the engine and hums merrily before opening up the sun roof and dragging two cans of Coca Cola from the glove box. He turns to me and removes his sunglasses, his expression is serious but his eyes are twinkling with laughter, "now, the CD that I am about to put into the stereo has been lovingly crafted and created by yours truly," he gestures at himself, "so, sit back, drink up and prepare to be educated."

John shoves it into the stereo as we pull out into the flow of meandering traffic. Suddenly the tiny car is filled with the baritone vocals of Morrissey. I grin.

Maybe I can pretend to be a normal teenager, enjoying the end of their summer holidays, for a little while.


	11. Chapter 11

John alternates between singing and banging his fists against the steering wheel in time to the music for the entire journey down to the coast. I roll my eyes and complain but I don't really mean it, it's strangely nice, especially when he pulls over and drags me out of the sunroof to take a picture of the two of us in front of the ocean. His arm fits comfortably round my waist and he grins stupidly. He's still got one of those ancient polaroids that automatically prints the photo. It comes out with a buzz, John smiles at it and flicks the photo at me. The sky is impossibly blue and our hair is untidy from the wind, John's laughing and his front teeth have snagged on his bottom lip. I'm looking at him out of the corner of my eyes and our shoulders are pressed up against each other. I run my nail down the white frame and smile.

"It's a nice photo," I say quietly.

"Stop being a vain dick and get your arse back in the car," John calls as he flops into his seat and turns the stereo up in one fluid motion.

I shake myself.

We drive down a winding lane that's so narrow that the branches of the hedgerows actually sweep into the car and scratch our arms and shoulders. I whinge about it and John just calls me a pansy and continues driving, oblivious to the light scratches on his biceps.

When the sun reaches higher into the sky and the rays burn the back of our necks John grabs two bottles of lukewarm water and tosses one to me. It tastes vaguely dusty and is thick in my throat but I drink greedily.

I feel strangely alive, my body is buzzing with a nervous excitement and I can feel the wind through my thin hair. I'm glad that I decided to come, any more time holed up in that hospital bed and I would have probably killed myself.

"We're nearly there," John says as he turns off the road and begins driving erratically down a dirt track.

I brace myself against the dashboard as we jolt from side to side.

The house is an old beach house, with wooden paneled walls with salt peeled periwinkle paint and old creaking shutters. There's even a porch, complete with a swing and an ancient looking handrail. John races out of the car in a record speed and darts into the house, carrying both our bags and grinning triumphantly. I make a sort of indistinct noise in the back of my throat before clambering out of the passenger side and taking a moment to stare at the house.

It's nothing like my own house, which is a sprawling red brick manor, filled with staff and familial tensions. Instead, the beach house is faded and warm and comfortable and homely. Sort of like John.

I grin and head inside, my hands tucked in my pockets and my eyes cast down at the worn wooden floorboards. I can hear John's footsteps echoing through the ceiling and rays of sunshine are trickling through the half drawn daisy yellow curtains in the kitchen. I follow the chord of sunshine through to the kitchen and stand with my prominent hipbones pressed up against the counter top and my hands curled around the edge of the sink. The sea is a writhing and glittering mass of cyan and sand. A gentle breeze tickles my sun-reddened nose and I close my eyes, allowing the pleasantly warm light to flood through my eyelids. There's a soft cough behind me.

John is leaning against the wall with his hair ruffled and his lips parted in a half smile that moulds his features in an overwhelmingly pleasant way.

"Hi," I murmur and I try to forget about the slight scratchiness of my vocals, caused by my medication.

"Hello," John's voice doesn't waver in the slightest, his vowels don't have the same broken undertone as mine do.

"When are your parents going to arrive?"

John runs his hands through his hair and some unknown emotion flickers across his face, "um, tomorrow morning- they had to see to some stuff with my sister."

"Oh, right." I don't bother pressing the matter, it's clear that John feels uneasy.

He clears his throat awkwardly, "do you want to watch a film or something?"

I nod.

John tells me that he thinks there's some microwaveable popcorn in the cupboard and that I should put the film on while he searches for it. I can't help but grin as I move into the incredibly cosy living room and settle in front of the ancient TV, there's an extensive collection of old VHS tapes and vinyls tucked in the shelves of the TV stand.

A phone starts buzzing impatiently. It's John's. His phone is lying on the footstool in the very centre of the room. Without really thinking about it, I crawl over and take a tiny peek at the illuminated screen. It seems to have exploded with texts and missed calls.

I feel that familiar lump in my throat as I comprehend the words on the screen. The texts are all variations on the one theme- 'where are you?' or 'you're meant to be at the party' or 'are you alright?'. I can feel my stomach shifting and contracting but it doesn't flip and jump until my eyes scan down to the last one.

'Are you hanging out with that cancer kid again? You're meant to be here, John. Hurry up, we all miss you.'

It's all been some stupid lie. John only befriended me out of pity. I flop back onto the carpet and stare at the ceiling, the truth crashes down on me in shuddering waves of sickening realisation.

The worst thing about dying at sixteen, I decide, is not the medication or the hospital trips or the insomnia or the pain. It's the pity driven lies that come with the conscience of the people that interact with you.


	12. Chapter 12

At the hospital, they try to pump everyone full of drugs before bed. It stops most of the nightmares and ensures that the night nurses can spend the hours between sundown and sunrise reading magazines and bitching to each other.

I didn't bother taking any sleeping pills to the beach, I thought I'd be exhausted from days spend walking and swimming down at the beach with John. Since reading the text, my brain has been a hubbub of scattered thoughts and half-formed ideas. I sit up in bed, my breathing heavy and fast. We're in the attic room, tucked up in a double bed that's rammed up against the wall under the navy blue painted sloping ceiling.

John's snoring gently, his hands are folded over his bare stomach and the string necklace that he always wears is slowly moving up and down with each breath.

I flop back onto the mattress and pull some of the duvet over my legs. Most of the sheets are tangled around John's stomach and legs and an icy draught makes me shiver.

I can feel worries and doubts beneath the surface of my skin, itching to be released.

I am terrified, absolutely terrified.

My breathing becomes heavier still and the sheets constrict around my legs, trapping me.

My closed eyes flicker white with nightmares.

One day soon, I will stop breathing, my heart will stop.

My skin will turn tight and grey, my temperature will drop, blood will pool in my lower extremities.

Then, rigor mortis will set in, my body will become rigid.

Before long, I will be mere dust, I'll be a gravestone in a weathered cemetery. Children might use crayons and paper to decipher the faded name carved in the stone but, apart from that, I will be forgotten.

My fingers fist in the material of my t-shirt, I can feel my heart thudding beneath my prominent bones. Blood rushes through my ears and my vision is clouded with buzzing black dots. A gasp escapes my lips and I sit up again.

Before my diagnosis, I hadn't been afraid of anything. The names that the other children called me didn't even register. I pretended as though I didn't mind the use of 'Freak' as a personal nickname. I had been happy, in a way. The fact that I was destined to die alone hadn't bothered me in the slightest. I wasn't like the other children, who were all obsessed with shoving their tongues down each others' throats. I didn't want to marry anyone. I didn't have crushes. I was fine by myself.

Being told that you'll be dead within a year changes everything.

The last thing that I wanted was a funeral full of sniveling teenagers, crying about how very sad my death was and talking about what a 'bright future' I had.

The very idea makes me want to vomit.

The idea that my tormentors would be allowed to share stories about me and no one would say anything even vaguely close to the truth disgusted me.

I began to long for someone, anyone to attend that would actually care. Someone that wouldn't just spend a week wearing a black tie to school and then, a few months later, wouldn't even remember my name.

Simply, I wanted a friend.

Earlier today, John haphazardly pinned the list to the ceiling.

Over the past few months, it has become stained, torn and battered, the page is littered with ideas that have already been crossed off. Stupid things, like drink a pint of beer or cry with laughter.

I smile fondly and card my still shaking fingers through my hair. Through my panic, the roots have become damp with sweat and the little hair that I have stands on end.

Next to me, John is still sleeping soundly, his mouth has widened by a few millimetres and tired gasps of air escape with every snore.

I watch him for a little while, my blurry eyes cataloguing every inch of his face.

He has a new freckle on his upper lip.

I stay like that for a long time, in the strange limbo of being not quite awake and not quite asleep that seems to exist only at 4am.

Somehow, as time passes and my eyes adjust to the darkness, heart stops beating as violently and my breathing slows to a regular pace.

And by the time I fall asleep, my fear has melted away entirely and suddenly, the idea of dying at sixteen doesn't seem as scary as I'd first thought.


	13. Chapter 13

Hi readers,

Basically, and I'm terribly sorry about this, but I won't be updating this story for quite a while. Not in the foreseeable future anyway. I won't go into details but I'll try and update as soon as I can.

So, until I've sorted my head out, I won't be able to update this story.

Apologies,

Bookwormtsb.


	14. Chapter 14

Upon waking, I find myself entangled with John. My legs entwined with his feet and his hair tickling at my chin and my fists pressed up against the warm flesh of his stomach and our breaths warm and heavy and sleepy in the minuscule gap between our faces, close enough that I can make out the strange little ring of hazel around the blue of his bleary eyes and the bump across the bridge of his nose (broken in a rugby scrum approximately 3 and a half years before).

"G'morning," he yawns, attempting to blink away the yellow residue of sleep from his eyes.

"Good morning."

We slowly pull apart, our movements sluggish and clumsy, legs kicking and nails scratching as John tugs the duvet off and slowly disentangles himself from my horridly thin limbs. He clambers out of bed and pads across to the bathroom, stretching up and eliciting a satisfying crack from his vertebrae. I stay in bed, my face half buried in the pillow so that the vision from my left eye is considerably more blurred as I watch John's lazy progress across the room. The high dosage drugs have the side effect of drowsiness, although, wanting to sleep is mostly just a side effect of my illness. In the days before my diagnosis, I was almost nocturnal, I would spend my nights reading and smoking and pondering the odious boredom of the World. Now, I spend my days and nights hooked up to machines and all sorts of infuriating monitors that are only prolonging, not improving, my life.

There's the splashing of water from the bathroom and sunlight streams through the window, the room is suddenly too bright and everything is spinning with an awful ferocity. I screw my eyes up and hiss in retaliation. It feels as though gravity has been reversed and my thoughts have lost their anchor in my mind, they're a furious blizzard that cloud my vision with a kaleidoscope of bizarre and bursting colours. My head feels ever so heavy and my limbs feel oddly light. I focus on my breathing. Slowly, slowly, everything returns to normal and John ambles out of the bathroom, lips curved upwards in a crooked smile that's a credit to his blissful lack of awareness.

"Are you going to lay in bed all day? Lazy sod."

I contort my features into a half smile, hoping that my discomfort isn't clear. I'm either a better actor than I'd originally thought or John is selectively ignorant as he turns to the wardrobe and begins dressing for the day. I watch with a tinge of envy at the way that his strong, lean muscles flex and contract as he reaches up to pull a shirt on, he's far too healthy, far too whole. I roll over onto my front and bury my face in the sheets so that breathing becomes more difficult and the cotton scratches at my cheeks.

Inhale, exhale, repeat.

John drops onto the end of the bed so that he can tie his laces, the aged mattress springs sag and creak in protest and my legs shift towards the dip created by his added weight.

"So, I thought we could go to the beach today, it's not too hot out there, we could have a picnic or whatever," he's speaking far too quickly and his words take a moment to register.

My reply is weak, my tone flat and lifeless, "picnic?"

"Yeah, gather some food together, sandwiches-" he doesn't finish that sentence.

With the speed of an Olympic athlete, I'm out of bed and into the bathroom and kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, dry heaving the contents of my empty stomach. John hovers in the doorway, obviously concerned with the sudden change.

I use my foot to flick the door shut in his face. There's a muffled 'ouch!' as the door swings back and hits him.

I should feel guilty but everything is a technicolour mishmash of blacks and blues and bruises across my vision caused by the splitting headache and the dry ache in my throat and the pain in my knees as they slide pathetically on the tiled floor.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

Stupid question. Stupid.

I retch again and this time choke on a mixture of vomit and blood. _Oh God._

I've read enough leaflets to know that this is it, this is the beginning of the end.

"Yeah, absolutely fine."


	15. Chapter 15

"Stop fidgeting."

"Stop being an idiot."

_"You're the idiot."_

"Year 2 of primary school phoned, they're demanding their incredibly witty retort back-"

"Bugger off."

"You're still smiling."

He is indeed. John's lips are barely parted in a stolen grin, trying his hardest to suppress his inevitable laughter. I smile back and his lips finally part to reveal his teeth, he has braces now. They're silver and awkward looking. John's grown about two inches since he first came to see me and he wears his hair a little longer now. His voice has finally broken and the awkward fuzz along his jaw has turned into a dusting of stubble with the beginnings of a goatee. I would tell him that he'd be better just shaving it off but it's barely worth the puppy dog eyes and hurt expression that would follow. He's proud of it, ridiculously so. Besides, it doesn't really look that bad. He looks...grown up, adult, mature. I don't even entertain the snide voice in the back of my head which reminds me of the fact that John's going to continue to grow taller and his voice will become deeper and he'll probably cut his hair for University next September and he'll have his braces removed and he'll meet a girl with pretty eyes and he'll grow older and wiser and his life will be a fulfilling one and-

...It's a good day.

It's not just a good day because it's John's 18th birthday and, even though I should be the one buying him a present, he brought me a pack of cigarettes. A pack of twenty Marlboro Menthols and a cheap Bic lighter with my initials scrawled on in Sharpie pen.

It's not just a good day because the sun is shining and John and I opened the window and sat with the sunshine on our backs while I helped him with his Pure Maths homework.

It's a good day because it's a _good day for cancer._

These days come and go. They're rarer than...actually, I have no idea, my drug addled mind is in no state to make comparisons or think of witty, cutting remarks.

A good day for cancer is a day without the precursory night terrors and the morning spent hunched over a toilet bowl, vision blurred with tears and throat hoarse from screaming about how unfair it all is. It's a day without the drug induced stutter and the inability to form coherent sentences. It's a day where there's still a glimmer of the person rather than the disease ravaged shell and empty eyes. It's a day where I don't hear John's hushed conversations with Dr. Somerhault and where I fail to notice the angry purple circles that rim his eyes. It's a day where John looks well rested, happy and I look half way there.

A cold trickle passes through my hand as a pain numbing drug is pumped into me. I wince slightly and shift in bed, trying not to dislodge the tube under the white bandage on my left hand, "you alright?"

I look up, smile still playing at my lips. John's cross legged at the foot of my bed. A large, slightly tattered, A-level Maths textbook fills his lap. He's still in school uniform, his blazer draped over the visitor's chair which always John chooses to neglect in favour of the foot of my bed. His tie is loosened and he's wearing his rugby team zip hoodie open over his white school shirt.

"Mhmm, yeah, obviously," I shoot him a vaguely reassuring smile, not quite wide enough to be obviously false and not weak enough to allude to the gritty reality of my pain.

He hums in content and returns to his book. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. It's been three months since we first met and I've lived longer than anyone expected. Two months.

It's almost laughable.

For most, two months is no time at all. It's a tiny period of time that people wish away in anticipation of something better. Two months until your birthday? No time at all. Two months until you go on holiday? It'll pass in a blink of an eye. Two months until school finishes? Oh, it'll fly by.

But, living two months longer than expected? Well, every nanosecond of those two months seems to crawl by at a snail's pace. It's the fear, I suppose. The fear that I won't wake tomorrow, the fear that I'm not going to make the night.

I shake my head to dispel such thoughts. No use in being negative on a good day.

Around me, at least, John is unsettlingly optimistic about the whole ordeal. I don't really mind that he saves the lingering, heart wrenchingly sad looks for when I'm not around or when I'm asleep or when my back is turned. It's just easier to pretend that everything is okay.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, of course. I'm absolutely fine."


	16. Chapter 16

John's hands interlinked with mine.

The scratchy material of the bed linen.

The cold sweat pooling in my jugular notch.

"I'm so sorry-"

"-it's time."

"Sherlock?"

Hands in my hair.

My mother's sobs.

The dip in the mattress caused by Mycroft's extra weight.

The faint smell of cigarettes radiating from Greg Lestrade.

It's becoming so hard to think.

My father's shoes clacking against the linoleum.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes-"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock?"

John's grip becoming almost painful.

The dark spots in front of my vision.

"Can you hear me, Sherlock?"

An incoherent grumble from my lips.

Why can't I express myself?

I'm dying.

A strange rustling noise.

The overwhelming blackness of my vision.

A piece of paper shoved into my numb hands.

The list.

Oh, John.

More tears.

I'm dying.

Please.

Not now.

Please, I just need-


	17. Chapter 17

"He's doing well," Dr. Carson sighs, leaning forwards in his chair and drumming the end of his biro against the pad of paper resting on his knee. The doctor is dressed in a pair of starched chinos and a pressed Oxford button down, his brogues are well polished and his hair is carefully combed. His neat appearance is really only to compensate for the cramped office and the fact that he looks far to young to be a professional. Patients seem to fall for the polish and hair gel. He supposes that it must be reassuring for them if their doctor actually looks like he knows what he's doing.

There's about three feet between his chair, an ergonomic swivel chair with lumbar support, and the small leather couch which his patient's parents occupy. His mother is wringing her hands anxiously and his father is trying his best to remain stoic, but his knuckles are white from where he's clutching the couch. They're both stressed.

"How well?"

"It's hard to say. Recovery from this sort of thing takes a while. He'll have his ups and his downs," he shoots them a reassuring, or at least what he hopes is a reassuring, smile, "but I'm certain that he'll get there in the end. He's strong, and he's only getting stronger as each day passes."

His mother smiles and looks across at her husband, who's looking very relieved.

"All that you can do is surround him with love and care. He'll get better in time."

They breathe out a synchronised sigh of relief, "you're sure?"

"Oh, yes, definitely. We've seen some really impressive improvement over the past three months. It's understandable that he'll have some trouble adjusting to normal life, considering how the past year has been for him, but he'll get there."

The three cast a look out through the narrow window in the office door. The boy in question is sitting on one of the ugly chairs outside, posture straight and eyes fixed straight ahead.

Dr. Carson tears his eyes away, "may I suggest that he starts keeping some sort of diary? Just to record his daily life. Many PTSD sufferers find it exceedingly useful, especially those struggling with grief. It might just work for John."


End file.
